First You Make A Stone Of Your Heart
by Random-Battlecry
Summary: Sherlock thinks he preferred it when Moriarty was a voice at the other end of a phone, tugging strings, hiding in the dark. But here he is, and after the echoes of footsteps and the smell of chlorine, it's Moriarty who still stands. Sherlock, Molly/Jim.


A/N: Apparently, my take on how the third episode cliffhanger could be resolved. Er, I didn't _know_ this was my take on it till after I wrote it. Then I was all like, "Really, self? _Really?_" Also, the title is taken from a song by The Police.

* * *

**First You Make A Stone Of Your Heart**

The smile stains his voice a golden color as he says, "This is going to hurt you more than it will hurt me."

He waits, making the space of silence an expectant pause, as though it could be filled. But the men in the white coats are not speaking, focusing solely on the motions of hands, their hands, scalpels and cool and unpleasant other things like extensions of their fingers, something inserted gently in his mouth, and he feels a slice of air down his chest as his shirt is cut away.

Moriarty hovers, hands in his pockets, head tilted, eyes just that little bit squinted, his look pensive as he takes this all in. He tucks his elbows in close to his sides as one of the white-coated forms shoves close by him. Sherlock's eyelids flutter, and with an effort he makes his gaze focus; Moriarty was fuzzed, blurred, uncertain, but there's hard lines to him now, the clear dark arch of his eyebrows as he purses his lips and gives Sherlock a look of, Well?

Sherlock could almost say he preferred it when Moriarty was a voice at the other end of a phone, tugging strings, still to be discovered, hiding in the dark. But here he is, pale and dark-eyed and surprisingly small in his tailored suit, and after the echoes of footsteps and the smell of chlorine, it's Moriarty who still stands.

The consulting criminal catches the eye of the detective, and holds it carelessly for a moment before he drops his gaze and smiles at the floor.

"I did _warn_ you," he says.

Somewhere in the depths of Sherlock's bloody chest are the fingers of the doctors, tinkering amongst the gears, and they're slim and skillful in their white gloves, now red. They peel him slowly so as to make no mistakes, to have him all of a piece. The drugs work. Sherlock drifts.

* * *

He's dreaming.

"_Cut you up patchwork and put you back together again_," says Moriarty, but Sherlock doesn't worry. He's dreaming.

* * *

He doesn't remember much, even when he's conscious— and consciousness is a vague sort of state to be in, these days. There's light and dark to delineate the passage of time, there's the punctuation of a doctor with incongruously worried eyes checking his thready pulse. There's the sifting and shifting back into sleep, and when the memories come they are patchy and threadbare and the color of salt.

Was he ever quite so stupid as to get into a standoff without calling for backup? And the pool. Had they gone for a swim? He couldn't quite recall the exact purpose of the pool. But there was something, certainly.

He had aimed a gun without pulling the trigger, and in the more coherent moments he could feel nothing but badly about that. A wasted opportunity.

* * *

John had taken a swim, that was it. John had taken a swim and the water had turned red, and Sherlock had slipped in his own blood and then had a nice lie down.

* * *

But this time when he awakes the worried eyes hovering over him are not those of the unnamed doctor; they are Moriarty's, far too close for comfort. They change in an instant from distress to laughter, and the dark hollows under them disappear in disconcerting smile lines.

"Wakey wakey," he sings, voice low. "The sun's up, and so should you be. Think of the world out there, Sherlock, waiting for you. Actually, coming for you. In about—" He checks his watch. "Ten minutes. So if you don't mind, I'll pack my things and go."

The needle is pulled from Sherlock's arm; the room is mysteriously silent and empty. The machines are gone. The lights are gone. The doctors are gone.

"Tell 'em hi from me," says Moriarty cheerfully, and pats Sherlock on the shoulder. "See you around!"

Sherlock doesn't close his eyes, not even to blink, till the paramedics show.

* * *

Molly comes to see him in hospital. She's there before he wakes, and sketches a hand in the air over his chest as though she can see the scars through the thin fabric of the hospital gown. When he opens his eyes, she's seated at his side, smiling.

He regards her seriously, and says nothing.

"Feeling better?" she chirps, hopefully, and clasps her hands in her lap.

"They won't tell me what happened to John," says Sherlock. "Perhaps you will."

Her smile falters and fades. She tries to get it restarted once or twice, but failure is inevitable beneath the steady weight of Sherlock's gaze.

"I would," she says, and it's an apology without _I'm sorry_. "But I don't know."

"Then find someone who does," says Sherlock, suddenly in a hurry, in a rush, the words falling on top of each other in an uneven stack. "You're ambulatory, and at the moment I am not. You can find someone who matters, someone who knows. Make them tell you."

"Sherlock," she says, to stop him, and he does. Restrains himself, reigns himself in; but it's difficult. "I'm sorry. I would if I could, I honestly would— but I can't. No one knows."

She waits; gets nothing; tries again.

"I'm sorry," she says, and again the apologetic tone could speak for itself. "I liked Dr. Watson. He was a nice man."

Sherlock turns his head, to face the wall.

* * *

Molly has dinner at the Fox, for old time's sake. While she's eating, a handful of chips are stolen from her plate as a slim dark figure slides into the booth across from her.

"You could get your own, you know."

"Everything tastes better when it's stolen."

Molly glances up from her plate, and doesn't smile at him. "Something I've been wondering."

Jim takes another chip and contemplates it seriously for a moment. "Potatoes are amazing, aren't they? Just think, this chip was once underground, covered in dirt, a lowly vegetable with only the hope of certain death." He shrugs, eats it, sucks the oil off his thumb absentmindedly.

Molly says, "Why did you do it like that, anyway? Lure him in and shoot him, just to put him back together and turn him loose again."

"Oh, come now, Molly," he says, inspecting his fingernails for lingering chip grease. "The fun is in the game, not the winning. Call this my next step, my gift to Sherlock. Keep him from getting bored. Let him have fun trying to find his pet." His eyes grow distant, and his smile is wicked. "It's always the last place you look. Scrounge around for days only to find it's been under your nose the whole time."

She smiles at him, now, and pushes her plate across to him, and changes the subject. "New jumper?"

"Yeah." He plucks at it, pinching it between finger and thumb a few inches below the collar. "I dunno about it, though. Not sure stripes are really, y'know, _me_."

"Well, I like it," says Molly. "Buy me a drink."

Jim grins at her for a moment, and does.

* * *

He's dreaming.

"_Knew you had a heart_," says Moriarty, in some satisfaction, and his hands are red. But Sherlock isn't worried. He's dreaming.

He did have a heart; he _does_ have a heart; even in the dream, he hears it beating. Even in the dream, he feels it thrum.


End file.
